The Adventure of Jack the Ripper
by KSherwood
Summary: It's November 1888 and a series of gruesome murders are occurring in Whitechapel; the police are baffled, but to the Great Detective and his assistant, it's elementary.
1. Chapter 1

The Adventure of Jack the Ripper

I woke up coughing and fell off the chair I had been dozing in. It was late at night in late December and in 221B Baker Street, things were quite bleak. Holmes was unemployed and in the process of trying to poison both of us with his filthy smoke. He didn't even look up when I fell off the chair. Cursing under my breath, I got up to open a window.

Letting in some relatively fresh air I noticed Inspector Lestrade walking up to the door. Thank God, I thought, this might be exactly what Holmes needs.

"It's Lestrade," I said over my shoulder. "He looks decidedly grim."

Holmes sat up straighter, taking the pipe out of his mouth. A good sign. We heard the footfalls on the stairs, and Holmes called, "come in" before the inspector had even had a chance to knock. He came in, ready to say something, saw me, and shut his mouth.

"This is hardly business for a lady to hear, Miss Sherwood," he said.

I frowned at him, standing up. "Three points, Lestrade: first, if you take that attitude, I'll only be more curious to know what it is. Second, I'm not a lady. Third, and most important, if women are being murdered, it certainly is my business."  
He gave me a suspicious look. "You know about this?"

"Please," Holmes broke in. "What happened, Lestrade?"

"Whitechapel," the inspector turned to look at Holmes. "A woman's been murdered… pretty nasty."

He drew a line across his throat and gut with his index finger.

"Who was the victim?" I asked.

"A woman of the street… she hadn't been identified yet when I left."

He then proceeded to give the full details. Holmes sat still, fingers steepled, eyes closed, drinking in the description. I shrugged on my cloak and checked my reflection in the dark window. I heard the details the same as my mentor, but I knew he got more out of them than I did. Still, a dead woman, no witnesses so far, and the person who found the body was the man on the beat. No motive, either, I thought. Prostitutes don't have anything of value on them as a rule. I suppose there are some who do, but not the ones in Whitechapel.

We went with Lestrade to the scene of the crime. It was late enough that most people wouldn't be out, but it seemed that everyone that was had gathered to ogle at the murder. The police shooed them away as best they could, and Holmes and I went to look at the corpse. The smell of blood was so thick in the air that I almost heaved, but some rapid swallowing kept it down. I did not look to see what Holmes would do but went straight to my own bit of searching. There was a trail of blood that went to the fountain nearby. The water was red and cloudy. Our fiend had washed his hands here; I knelt down and stood back up, having knelt on something hard. It was a button. I put it in my pocket, and took out my glass. There wasn't much to see in the fountain, but when I looked back at the corpse, I realized that whoever had done the deed knew almost exactly where to put the knife. Or maybe he did know where to put it, and his knife wasn't the best. Either theory was possible.

I had never cut the throat and/or the abdomen of a living thing, but if the fish I'd been forced to clean back in America were anything to go by, it was no easy task. Holmes probably knew what the murderer did for a living, where he lived, who his barber was, and all the issues of his love life. I chuckled to myself. It was a rather ghoulish laugh, and I only let one escape.

"Rigor hasn't set in yet," I observed to cover that up.

"Still warm when he found her," Lestrade said.

"Indeed?" Holmes appeared. "Where is he?"

"There," the inspector pointed out an ugly young man, close to my age, possibly a little older, with a faintly greenish tinge to his countenance.

I listened to the young man and failed to find anything useful in what he said; Holmes and I returned to Baker Street in relative silence.

"Well, Holmes?" I asked.

"What did you see?"

"Strong man… killing a person like that is no easy task, and he knew almost right where to put the knife. Oh, and the knife might be a bit on the dull side. I can't see a sane person committing a murder like that. Or a person without a lot of hate for poor Miss X committing the deed, but I think that unlikely."

"Why not?"

"It's purely conjecture, of course, but most people don't care about prostitutes enough to do something like that. Usually people pretend not to see them, whether they use them or not. At least during the day. Nighttime is probably different."

"Very good. How do you know it's a man?"

"I don't, but I can't see another woman doing something like this. If I were going to murder someone, I would use poison, or a gun. Knives are messy, and they require more physical labor."

He nodded, and lay back on the sofa. I hid my smile behind my hand; he had no idea how alluring I found him when he did that. I started to turn back in the direction of my room (it had been Watson's until his marriage) when his voice stopped me.

"One thing, Sherwood," he said.

"Yes?"

"Don't bluff Lestrade like that. You had no way of knowing the gender of the murder victim, and if you had been mistaken…."

"Yes. I just hate being coddled like that because I am a woman."

No reply. He was probably trying not to notice my sex, which is an uphill battle. I keep my long blonde hair unbound unless the situation is very formal, and my shape is very womanly. His issue with women was something I was very curious about. Having lived with him as long as I had (we could have been brother and sister), I concluded that he _was_ interested in women, but hadn't a clue what to do with or around them.

I attempted to sleep, but had no luck. It was too early in the morning for me to sleep, no matter how tired I was, so I went back out into the main room and resumed reading _The Body Snatcher_ where I had left off. Holmes was nowhere to be seen. He could probably sleep on command. When I finished the story it was early enough to be qualified as day. However, I did not move from my spot. My eyes ached with tiredness. Mrs. Hudson would be by with breakfast soon; unlike Holmes I actually ate at regular intervals.

I shivered. It was cold in just my nightgown. I went back into my room and started to get dressed. I got my dark blue dress out of my wardrobe, and the button fell out of the pocket of the jacket I had been wearing the day before. I picked it up and looked at it. It was a sailor's button, with a splatter of dried blood on the top. The back was clean, however. I turned the button over in my hand; it could be nothing, or it could be a clue.

Returning to the other room I saw Mrs. Hudson come in.

"Good morning," I said. "Papers come yet?"

"Right here," she handed me the paper. "Is that dreadful story why the inspector was here at that unholy hour last night?"

"Holmes' deduction skills are rubbing off on you," I said. "Good God. Did they have to include the photograph?"

"Do you still want your breakfast?" Mrs. Hudson asked, drily.

"Yes. Thank you."

She muttered something and left. I weighed my choices. I could awaken Holmes and tell him about the button, and make him eat breakfast. However, he did not like to be woken up, and that could put him in a nasty mood for the rest of the day. After thinking for a few minutes I went to Holmes' room and shook him awake. He pushed me away but not to be driven off, I lit a cigarette for him. He took it from me, and the nicotine pushed some energy to his sleep-fogged brain.

"What is it?" He asked, smoke falling out of his mouth.

"I might have a clue."

"Well?"

I handed him his purple dressing gown. "A sailor's button. I picked it up last night, but I forgot about it until just now."

He took it from me. He was still staring at it when Lestrade came back, after I had eaten breakfast. Holmes had only taken coffee; he was still in his nightshirt and dressing gown. I was fully dressed, though my hair was unbrushed.

"Good morning, Inspector," Holmes said, without looking around.

"How'd you know it was me?"

"Your footsteps," I answered for Holmes. "Would you care for some coffee?"

"No thank you, I have to be going again, but I just wanted to tell Mr. Holmes that the victim has been identified."

Holmes waved his hand in a "well, go on" kind of gesture.

"Her name is, uh, was, Mary Ann Nichols."

"Anything else?"

"No, just that it was the throat wound that killed her. She was already dead when…."

"He cut her stomach," I finished. "One has to wonder why."

"Well, I'll leave the philosophy to the two of you."

As well he should. Lestrade then took his leave of us, and I helped myself to the last of the coffee, writing down what we knew for sure about the case.

Victim: Mary Ann Nichols

Profession: Prostitute

Date of Death: 30 November 1888

Cause of Death: Throat cutting

Motive:

I erased "Motive" after I had written it down and replaced it with "Misc."

Misc.: Stomach also slashed. She was already dead when this occurred: mutilation.

"What are you doing?" Holmes asked.

I read him back the list, and when he did not reply I asked him, "did I leave something out?"

Still no reply.

"What does that button tell you?" I pressed on.

He handed it to me, along with his glass. "You discovered it, but did not really observe its significance. Look at it again and tell me."

I frowned, looking at it. "It's a sailor's button, like I said before. There's blood on the front of it. Wait a minute. If it were already there when the crime occurred, wouldn't the blood be on the back of it?"

"Would it?"

"Yes, because I knelt on the back of it. Was our murderer wearing it?"

"Perhaps he did… you remember that you must be careful when you form theories."

"I know. There's always the danger of twisting facts to fit the theories and therefore missing the point entirely. You told me that when we were investigating the ambassadors to see which one was extorting from the Bank of England."

"You were convinced it was the French ambassador."

"I was close, it was the Spanish Ambassador."

His blue eyes darted in my direction, a trace of amusement flickering there, though his face remained emotionless.

Nothing happened for about a week, but then at six AM on December 7th, I was awakened by Holmes himself. It was very odd for him to be up and about at this hour.

"What's the matter?" I asked, sitting up and throwing the quilt off my legs.

"Another murder, just like the last one," he said, and a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. "It must be a serial killer; I love those."

"Ghoul." I said, and the smile flitted across his face again. I got out of bed and grabbed some clothes. "Give me ten minutes."

He disappeared, not offering any objection to the time, which I took as a yes. I pulled on my dark red skirt and jacket, dragging a comb across my head before I bundled up for the icy morning. I didn't have a thermometer, but if it were very much above twenty degrees, I would have been very surprised.

I recognized this woman when I saw her. Her name was Annie Chapman, and like Mary Ann Nichols, her throat and abdomen had been slashed. Unlike her predecessor, the stomach wound was a good deal messier. He must have cut something out, I thought.

"Bolder," I observed.

A few of the policemen nodded or muttered something. Holmes was looking at the wounds and did not reply.

"Same knife," he said. "It has the same jagged appearance as the other."

"Can't be sure until the medical examiner has his turn," Lestrade said, probably just to be saying something.

No matter how much the poor man tried to save face in front of his troops, or kidded himself into believing that he was Holmes' intellectual equal, we both knew damn well that if Holmes said that the same knife had been used, we could take that statement to the bank. I took a deep breath and bravely squatted down next to my teacher to look at the wounds. From what I remembered of the others, they were a perfect match.

He stood up and pulled me into a standing position as well, thanked Lestrade, and announced that we had seen what we needed to see. Well, he had, anyway. I wasn't finished.

"Where are we going, Holmes?" I asked.

"In search of a fishmonger," he replied. "I want to see the way fish are gutted."

"Of course," I fell into step beside him, thinking that this morning I might not need breakfast.

The stench of the dead fish is enough to wake the dead if the strong-lunged vendors hadn't done that task already. Holmes immediately drifted away from me, and when we met up again he was looking pleased.

"Was Miss Chapman gutted like a fish?" I asked, sotto voiced.

"Yes, and now we must leave before we are forced to buy something."

I nodded. "I spent this entire time avoiding that, and I don't like to argue with people holding knives."

A clock chimed somewhere. It was only eight o'clock in the morning. When we reached the rooms at Baker Street, Mrs. Hudson had already laid out breakfast, which by now I didn't especially want, but felt a little guilty in leaving. I poured myself some coffee, and an idea popped into my head.

"You know Holmes," I said. "If we get desperate, I can always dress up and walk the streets. Bait."

"Absolutely not," he replied.

"Follow me and pick me up if you see someone who has designs on my inner organs. Wear a disguise if being seen like that troubles you."

He didn't reply, and I let the subject drop. I thought it was a good idea, and it might improve his reputation. A lot of people who had read Dr. Watson's books had the two of them in bed, which wasn't how things were, but people have no imagination. They see two people living in close proximity and they assume sex. I imagine that Lestrade thought that we were sharing much more than the rent.

I chuckled to myself then pretended my coffee had gone down the wrong way.


	2. Chapter 2

The medical examiner's report revealed that Miss Chapman's uterus had been surgically removed by the fiend. Beyond that, nothing else related to the case happened. There were no new murders, which made me edgy, but Holmes took it in stride.

Christmas came, but it was little cheerier than Lent. Holmes had flashes of Christmas spirit, but they were few and far between. He did have a present for me, however: a new hat that I'd admired before. I'd bought him more of that filthy tobacco. He also had a present from Dr. Watson. The doctor must have brought it when I had been out Christmas shopping, I reasoned. I was a little disappointed at missing him.

On Boxing Day Lestrade was once again at the door with the news of a double murder by the unknown killer. They hadn't been killed together, but the work was undoubtedly done by the same person. The first woman had been killed in the same manner as Miss Nichols, but the second woman was different in that one of her ears was missing. There was also a witness of sorts.

A man coming around the corner heard someone splashing in the nearby fountain and then running away. He found the body when he investigated.

There was a crust of ice over the fountain, but there was a hole punched in it, and the water visible in the darkness was cloudy with blood. A few drops rested on the ice. I turned away from the fountain and noticed something odd.

"He started on the other ear, look" I pointed at the lady's head. "He heard the witness coming, washed up, and fled?"

"It looks that way," Holmes replied, examining some footprints on the ground.

"Walked a little softer and you might of caught him in the act," Lestrade told the witness, Mr. Sweeney, who did not seem pleased by this thought.

I scanned the footprints, too. They probably belonged to the killer, and though there wasn't much shape to them, there were some traces of mud. Holmes got some of it on his finger and examined its texture.

"The waterfront," he said quietly.

"How's that?" Lestrade asked.

"The murderer has been at the waterfront at some point this evening," I said.

"So have a lot of people."

"Yes," Holmes agreed. "But there are certain signs that imply that our man spends a great deal of time there, in fact that he earns his living there. Notice the cut; overall a neat job. Fishermen and sailors are good with knives, and the entrails of fish are removed in a similar way. Also one who is so often in contact with the insides of a fish would have some grasp of anatomy, and after cutting up fish day in and day out, the knife would get to be a bit dull. A sharper knife would leave a cleaner mark."

Lestrade didn't look happy with this school of thought, either because it trumped a hypothesis of his own, or because there were probably more sailors and fishermen than there were policeman. I took my notebook out of my pocket.

"Do you know the victim's name," I asked. "Just for the record?"

"Her name is Catherine Eddowes," a younger officer answered.

I added her to my list, just below Elizabeth Stride, the other casualty of the night. Later back at Baker Street I was finishing up my notes on Miss Eddowes when I noticed a pattern: 30 November, 7 December, and 26 December. They were the last week of the month, the first week of the month, and the last week, though just barely. I showed this to Holmes, who reminded me that it was actually now the 27th of the month. Correction made, I was toying with the notion of going to bed when he said something that woke me right up.

"I'm reconsidering your plan."

"What idea? Oh! The one where I dress up and…."

"Yes. It is a very dangerous thing which you propose to do…."

"That much is obvious, but I'm willing to take the risk. I'll even go armed."

"In that area of London you must always go armed." He seemed vaguely surprised that I did not know this, or necessarily follow this then he had another thought. "Do you have the clothes and things you'll need for your charade?"

I smiled roguishly. "Yes. I have face paint, too. Everything one would need to masquerade as a whore."

He looked faintly concerned by this revelation for a second, but he let it pass. And I went to bed.

The next morning saw Inspector Lestrade at our doorstep again.

"Not another murder?" I asked.

"No, not exactly," Lestrade replied, clearly not wanting to let me in on the information. "Is Mr. Holmes here?"

"Yes, but you'll have to wait a moment. What is it?"

"Some letters."

I gave up and poked the fire, just to be doing something. Holmes appeared, half-dressed but perfectly shaved.

"My dear Inspector Lestrade," he said. "What letters have kept you on duty for so long?"

"Just take a look at 'em. Don't seem like the second one could be a forgery with information like that."

Holmes scanned the letter, and I read it over his shoulder. I won't bother with the full details of the letters, but they were distinctly insane: boasting about the crimes, laughing at the speculations that the killer was a doctor, and promising to "bob the lady's ears." They were signed "Jack the Ripper" and "Saucy Jacky."

"That's appetizing," I muttered, taking the Saucy Jacky letter, as Holmes was still occupied with the first. "Now I guess we know why Miss Eddowes was missing an ear and a half."

Lestrade gave me the look, as if to say that now was not the time for such things, but I ignored him. Holmes suddenly snatched the letter from me and dashed to his desk, examining them under greater scrutiny. His study of them revealed that they had indeed been written by the same person.

"So what are we dealing with," I asked, settling in on the sofa. "An egomaniac with a twisted sense of humor, who has had some schooling but not a great deal?"

Holmes smiled. "Yes, quite."

"Eh?" Lestrade said.

"Notice the size of the I's in the letter," Holmes said. "The author obviously thinks very highly of himself. The repetition of the phrase 'ha ha' at the mention of the gory details suggests a twisted sense of humor, as does the use of red ink. No doubt he meant to emulate blood, but my tests have told me that ink is all it is."

"Spelling is good for the most part," I added, "but the grammar is bad. And there is no use of capitalization except for the use of 'I' or his macabre name."

"Oh." Lestrade took the letters back from Holmes. "Be needing these as evidence, you know. Not that it'll do much good now. The Globe got these back at the start of the month and followed the instructions to keep 'em quiet until the promised atrocity could be committed."

"They probably have a copy that'll be in the evening edition," I mused.

The Inspector had also had that thought and was not pleased by it. He left still in that frame of mind. Holmes, however, was thoughtful, still staring at the negative chemical test of a piece of the paper. And I was right. Both the "Jack the Ripper" letters were in the evening papers. I felt a little sorry for the boy who sold them.

A few nights later, the first week of January to be exact, I was in my room, dressing up for the role of live bait for the serial killer. I messily pinned my hair up, carelessly darkened my eyelids with kohl, and painted my mouth a brilliant crimson. My own mother wouldn't know me in this disguise, or at least she'd pretend she didn't know me. Holmes was visibly startled when I came into the main room.

"Do I look convincing?" I asked.

"It's frightening," he said.

"Good. How will I know you if something happens?"

"You'll know me. Are you armed?"

"Heavily. I'll go out the back door. Distract Mrs. Hudson, please?"

He laughed and promised to do so. I went downstairs and slipped out the back door into the night. It was colder than hell outside, and as dark as a spider's mouth. I have a strong conviction of the existence of ghosts, and on that night I found their existence painfully obvious. I paced around Whitechapel for a while, perhaps moving around more than I should have, but I was afraid I'd freeze to death if I stood still. Business was slow. Maybe the johns on the streets knew I wasn't for real, or maybe they were loath to leave their favorites.

A clock chimed somewhere; it was not yet midnight. Time was moving by at a crawl. I blew on my hands. A drunk looked me over but kept going. I leaned against the side of a building, scuffing my feet against the ground. The clock chimed again, this time signaling one o'clock.

"Expect the first ghost when the bell tolls one," I said to myself, and someone put their hand on my arm. I almost screamed, but it was only Holmes. Relieved, I loudly asked. "Looking for some excitement tonight?"

He gave an affirmative answer for the benefit of anyone who might be listening, and we beat a hasty, albeit casual retreat. We turned a corner and nearly collided with a man carrying a doctor's bag. Both he and Holmes stopped dead in their tracks.

"Holmes?" The stranger asked, sounding somewhat horrified.

I bit back an absurd bubble of laughter. This had to be Dr. Watson. The poor man! He was out at fulfilling his duties as a physician, and he bumps into his best friend, who has a prostitute on his arm. For once Holmes seemed at a loss for words.

I resumed my role. "Both of you? That'll cost ya."


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes laughed. Watson looked even more horrified.

"It's alright, Watson," Holmes stage-whispered to his friend. "I assure you this is part of my investigation of the Whitechapel Murders. Miss Sherwood is assisting me."

Fifteen minutes later we were all seated around the fire in 221B Baker Street. I was still in the dress I had gone out in, but I had cleaned the paint off my face and taken down my hair. Poor Watson was still trying to get his head around the situation, and telling both of us off for embarking on such an adventure: the danger, the damage to my reputation… the usual rubbish. And to be perfectly honest, the only way to further damage my reputation would be to ride stark naked down the middle of the street like Lady Godiva.

"I knew the possible outcomes of the night's work," I told Watson. "I'm not as helpless as I look."

To make my point I took my knife out of my sleeve, and since I had just met the unfortunate man, I did not take my revolver out of its hiding place. Watson chose not to comment. I couldn't see Holmes because I was standing more or less behind him, but I suspected that he was keeping a poker face.

"Well was the evening successful, at any rate?" Watson asked.

"I believe so," Holmes said, and turning to look at him I saw that he had his eyes closed, so that he could access the memory without the distraction of his current surroundings. "It was too dark for me to clearly see the face of our suspect, but he was tall, looked very strong, was dressed like a fisherman, and I was fortunate enough to see that he had mud from the waterfront area on his shoes."

"Then you, ah, picked me up?" I asked.

"Yes."

"Thank you."

"The papers said that the killer is another doctor," Watson said.

"Their judgment is sound enough, but erroneous. A doctor would have the knowledge of anatomy to make such a cut and extraction, but the wounds them self are more similar to that inflicted on a fish during the cleaning process."

We filled Watson in on the rest of the details of the case, and then he went back home to his wife. Holmes got that moody look on his face again, probably because he had once again been reminded that Watson had a wife. I got up and looked at my reflection in the dark window. I hadn't managed to completely clean all the paint off my face.

"I'm going to take a bath," I said.

"I'll not disturb you," Holmes replied.

What a night, I thought, as I ran the water. Tomorrow we would probably be back at the waterfront once the fishing boats got back. I wouldn't be a fisherman for the world. I get up hours before Holmes, but to have to get up around three or four in the morning! And then there were the insides of all those damn fish. No wonder Jack went crazy.

I stripped and got into the bath. The water washed away tension and left me feeling relaxed and ready for sleep. Dried, and clad in my nightgown and Oriental robe I opened the bathroom door, and total darkness greeted me. Holmes was either sitting in the dark, or he'd gone to bed himself. I carefully picked my way over to the door to my room. It was so dark I needn't have bothered getting dressed, I thought to myself. Oh, what was I saying? If Holmes was there he'd miss the sound of my skirts.

I did have some worries that the killer would not be put off by my exit the previous night, and would kill someone else, but when Lestrade had not appeared by the time I awoke, I felt that it was a good sign. The day was barely warmer than the night, and when Holmes and I set off for the waterfront I was bundled up like an Egyptian mummy. He wore very little to ward off the cold; when I lived in the United States I had loved the cold, and still did, but in England the lack of heat was ten times more pronounced.

I did not know exactly what, or who, we were looking for, but something told me I would know it when I saw it. Or him. The fishermen were mending their nets and doing other such tasks. I paused watching a bulky man with dark hair and a sour expression write something. He became aware of my stare and gave me an evil look, his green eyes flashing. I hastened to catch up with Holmes.

"Do you know him?" I asked.

Holmes shook his head. "I am curious, though, as to why he reacted as he did to you. Most men wouldn't."

I decided to take that as a compliment. "I noticed the boat's name, for what use that might be."

"It could be invaluable."

"She's called The Shark, which makes sense, I suppose. Sharks eat fish, and they're fearsome predators."

Holmes laid a finger on his lips, a sign that he was thinking, and I fell silent. After his hand had returned to dangling by his side, I asked another question.

"Where to now?"  
"To the nearest public house," he replied expansively. "Always a center for local gossip."

Of course. The nearest public house was a small, rather spooky dark place called The Little Mermaid. No doubt the landlord thought he was hilarious. While Holmes charmed the old codger with his coin, I played the anemic young thing who was serving.

"Do you know anything about the men on The Shark?" I asked her.

"Which one?" She asked.

"The big one, with the dark hair," I said. "Maybe he was the captain? I thought he was nice-looking."

"No," she said vehemently. "You want to stay away from Captain Jacoby."

"Why?"

"Lot of reasons, first of all, is someone pretty as you can do a lot better than a fisherman. The gentleman you came with… you should stay with him."

"Yes, well, he's not without his eccentricities."

"His what? Anyway, some say ol' Jack, as he's called, is daft. Got a nasty temper, too, but he knows fish. Some say he's the best fisherman in London. Still, I get goose pimples every time he comes in here and not the good kind either."

"Well, I only glimpsed him from a distance."

The landlord yelled to the girl that he didn't pay her to stand around and gossip. I slipped a coin into her pocket as she hurried away to not gossip somewhere else. I surveyed the old man over my glass. He probably hardly paid the poor thing at all. I looked at Holmes, who jerked his head in the direction of the door. I was happy to leave.

"What did he tell you?" I asked.

"Not much. He likes the man, but he's a bit strange."

"The serving girl is afraid of him. Some say he's crazy, and he's got a nasty temper."

"Yes. The landlord did not seem to be a man of a sweet disposition, so he would in all likelihood not notice when one of his customers has a quick temper. But strange and… daft, did she say? I think it would pay to keep Captain Jacoby under closer surveillance."

"Mm hm. That and coupled with the fact that the first part of Jacoby is 'jack,' he begins to look more suspicious."

"Yes, but we have nothing concrete to go on, and he has seen you twice, though the first time you were very well disguised."

"What shall we do?"

"Return to Baker Street and have dinner. After that I will observe him."

We ate, and he disappeared into his room for about an hour, returning in a seedy disguise. I couldn't quite figure out what he was supposed to be, but it was a fairly safe bet that most people would try not to notice him. I settled in to resume my adventures with Edgar Allan Poe; Holmes couldn't stand his stories about Dupin, but I greatly enjoyed the tales of the supernatural and poetry. _Annabelle Lee_ always brought tears to my eyes.

A knocking at the door jerked me out of the Montressor vaults and back to the present.

"Come in!" I called, standing up.

It was Inspector Lestrade, holding another envelope. He asked for Holmes, barely giving me a greeting. I told him that he had vanished without a trace, and I had no idea when he would be back.

"I have another letter from the murderer, or at least someone claiming to be him. This one was addressed to me personally."

"How interesting. Perhaps you could leave it for Holmes?"

"It's evidence, I want to make sure it's safe."

"And when he returns it will be in the best hands in Britain."

We argued on that subject for a few minutes, and at last he left the note on Holmes' desk. Once he had gone, I picked it up and read it. Contrary to whatever Lestrade thought, it did not spontaneously combust when I touched it. The letter was exactly like the others; it was written in red ink, the spelling was good but grammar was bad, and it was distinctly insane. Jack expressed frustration with his last two murder attempts, and promised that the next one would be the best yet, or the worse, depending on how the reader looked at it.

The letter put me off the murder in _The Cask of Amontillado_, so I occupied myself until Holmes returned by straightening things, poking the fire, and having a drink or two. I was reading the letter for the fourth time when he burst into the room.

"Hello, Holmes," I said.

He waved his hand at me, and disappeared into his room.

I called to him. "Did Jacoby post a letter while you were out?"

"Yes."

"This might interest you, then," I waved the letter in the air, even though the door was closed. "Lestrade brought it about half an hour ago. I had to go down on my knees and beg him for it."

About two minutes later Holmes reappeared, completely free of his seedy disguise and took the envelope out of my hand, which I was still holding in the air. I picked up my glass and let the last drop trick its way into my mouth. He examined it closely and then threw it down, picked up his pipe, admonishing me not to speak to him for approximately fifty minutes while he thought things over. I rolled my eyes, and picked up the story again, however I was so close to the end of the story that I was finished in about five. The Times held no interest for me, and after about half an hour I was so cagey that I finally bundled up for the night air and went out.

It was slightly warmer than the previous night, and the ice that had turned to slush during the day was slow to turn back to ice. My feet led me in the direction of Whitechapel, just out of morbid curiosity. Being slightly warmer than the previous night, there were a few more people about, though not many. I turned to go back to Baker Street, knowing that by now more than fifty minutes had passed. Coming around a corner I saw a woman standing around; a man appeared seemingly out of nowhere and stole up behind her. Steel glinted darkly in the moonlight, and I heard the nasty sound of metal against flesh. I screamed loudly, and the man turned around and fled. For a second he had faced me, long enough for me to recognize him as Jacoby. It was too dark for me to see the green of his eyes, but it was unmistakably the same man. I drew my revolver, but he was already gone.

The woman moaned, and I ran over to her. I frankly hadn't expected her to be alive. She clung to my skirts as if I were her last hope on Earth when I reached her. I made a pad out of my handkerchief, and pressed it against the wound. She needed a doctor. This being a throat wound, I was afraid to apply too much pressure.

I screamed again, this time calling "fire!" which was sure to bring a response. A crowd of people soon arrived, and someone ran for the police. Within the course of a few minutes Inspector Lestrade, two other constables, Holmes, and Dr. Watson were at the scene. I was only too happy to turn the woman over to his care, though she still did not let go of me.

"Where did you come from, Holmes?" I asked weakly, taking a drink from his flask.

"I followed you when you left Baker Street so suddenly. You got away from me for a few blocks due to your harum-scarum path, but your cry of 'fire' immediately aroused my attention. I observed the crowd, and hastened to fetch Watson."

"You followed me?"

He nodded. I was too tired to argue.

"I suppose it would be futile to point out that you let the killer get away in your admirable haste to save his victim's life."

"I know… I'm too full of the milk of human kindness." I wiped my forehead off on my sleeve. Despite the cold I was sweating like a racehorse. "Do you think she'll live?"

"I have every faith in Dr. Watson's abilities, especially in the area of wounds. He was after all an army doctor."

"Yes." I found that my skirt was free and stepped a bit farther away from the patient. "I did see Jack's face. Captain Jacoby's face, that is."

"Are you absolutely certain?"

"Yes."

"Which way did he go?"

"Down that way," I pointed.

"Then faces south and forward march!"

"What about Watson and Lestrade?"

"They will understand. Time waits for no one, and it is of the utmost importance that we catch up to Jacoby."

Forward march.


	4. Chapter 4

Unfortunately we did not get far. Lestrade caught up with us before we got entirely out of the alley, and we were obliged to give him the information.

"Are we still going?" I asked.

"No," Holmes sighed, looking disappointed at having been cheated out of the thrill of the chase. "I will let Lestrade have this one. If they find him, there should be sufficient evidence to send him to prison for the assault of that woman… Miss Kelly, I think they said her name was. If not, we will see to it."

"All right then." I had my hands in my pockets so he wouldn't see them shaking.

The following morning Lestrade returned to our lodgings, in a temper that rivaled Holmes.

"We caught him and had to let him go." He growled, throwing his hat at the wall. "Traced him back to his boat, and all his friends jumped all over each other to assure us that he'd been with them all evening. Of course they were all lying. They knew it, too, but it didn't seem to bother 'em that they could be letting a murderer run free. And we can't prove anything."

"I saw him," I pointed out.

"At a distance, though, and they claimed to have been with him all night."

"Can't mistake those eyes, though," I said amiably.

"No," Lestrade said, seemingly chagrinned to be in agreement with me. "They gave me the creeps."

We both looked at Holmes, who had his own eyes closed, and his hands folded behind his head. I shrugged. Lestrade muttered something and left. I picked his hat up off the floor and followed him downstairs to return it. Holmes remained in his thoughts for about fifteen minutes or so before sitting bolt upright and putting a question to me.

"How do you think last night's events affected Jacoby? Emotionally?"

I leaned against the doorway to my room, folding my arms. "He's probably angry that I spoiled his fun, and he might be scared that he came that close to being arrested."

"Undoubtedly," he replied, lighting a cigarette. "You have learned a great deal about the criminal mind lately. Delve into it, and tell me what you find."

I stared at the ceiling in thought. "He might skip out on us, or he might do something really stupid that'll get him caught. Something rash."

"Excellent. I do not think that he will see flight as an option, though of course, however unlikely, I could be mistaken." He picked up his violin.

Always humble, I thought. "So you're fiddling while Rome burns?"

"No, I merely lie in wait. Have you read Colonel Moran's book on tiger hunting? We are the hunter waiting for the tiger to appear, and Captain Walter Jacoby is our tiger."

That was all well and good, but he was neglecting the most essential piece of the Colonel's tiger trap: a goat, the bait.

The next few days were very quiet. I felt that they were too quiet; had I been back in the United States I would have been sure of an imminent Indian attack, but in London, there were none to be found, unless you counted those on my few remaining American coins.

The weather turned nasty, too. It warmed up enough to rain, and for days on end the sky dumped buckets upon buckets of water on us. Holmes and I were not afraid of getting wet, and often took walks in the rain, without much protection from the elements, something that Watson frowned upon, he told me. Finally the rain ceased and the sun hazarded a look out at the world below. We went out again for a bit of air, and we had not gotten far before Holmes was besieged by a feeble-looking man whom he addressed as Musgrave.

They went back apparently, for I had seldom seen Holmes that pleased to see someone. Perhaps had the circumstances of their meeting been different, he might have reacted that way to Watson's appearance, but as it was the situation was quite awkward. Anyway, I was introduced to Reginald Musgrave, and then I drifted away, sensing that I was not wanted. There was a flower vendor nearby; normally I am not keen on bouquets, but for lack of anything better to do, I could look at dried roses.

I just had time to register a shocked look on the vendor's face before I was grabbed from behind and slammed up against the brick wall of the nearby building. Then I found myself looking into Jacoby's spooky eyes.

"You ruined it last time," he said. "She didn't even die."

There was the knife at my throat, making me leery of replying, but as no one was rushing to my aid, I took that chance. "She still might. You did a lot of damage."

"Not enough. If you hadn't made all that noise I would have painted the street with her. But I'll do that with you, and take your kidneys."

There were some exclamations from the people who were watching, and the flower vendor dropped a bucket on Jacoby's head. Off balance, he flailed his hands in the air, taking me out of immediate danger, but narrowly missing my nose. Hearing the commotion, Holmes and Musgrave reappeared. I kicked Jacoby's knee, sending him back. Holmes rushed over and grabbed his knife arm, causing some of the men to remember that they could move and offer much-needed help.

Crazy people have unusual strength, and he was a strong person anyway. I didn't see Musgrave, but suddenly he reappeared with police, and finally the fiend was apprehended. I leaned back against the building I had been held against to take a breath. The flower seller handed me my Christmas hat.

"Thank you," I said. "But more for the bucket than the hat."

She eyed the rest of the bystanders with distaste. "Men… can't trust them for anything."

I shook my head. "No you can't. Oh, but we've ruined your flowers. Let me give you money."

"You almost murdered, and now you want to pay me for me flowers? Never mind about that! What the world is coming to, when a woman can't even shop in broad daylight…."

I at last managed to push probably about half of what the destroyed flowers were worth, and by then some of the adrenaline rush I had been on was beginning to wear off. By the time Holmes and I were finished with the police I felt I would be content if I never had to move again.

The next morning I felt better, but Holmes was looking down again. We'd caught our man, and now there was no problem to intrigue his mind. I looked out the window and saw Inspector Lestrade… what could he want, I wondered.

"Lestrade," I told Holmes, who immediately perked up.

"Jacoby's dead," Lestrade announced before he'd even come through the door. "Hanged himself."

"Did he leave behind a confession?" Holmes asked, now sounding only vaguely interested.

Lestrade shook his head then upon realizing that Holmes was not looking at him said aloud, "no."

"Bastard," I said, causing Lestrade to give me a shocked look.

Holmes didn't say another word for hours but that evening, out of the blue, he asked me a question.

"What were you and the flower vendor discussing while you tried to pay her back for the destroyed flowers?"

I grinned and then covered my mouth with my hand, "we were talking about how men are useless and not to be trusted."

He sat up and looked at me as if I had just announced that I intended to start ritually sacrificing dogs to Anubis ever Saturday night. "What?"

"Most of the onlookers were men, and who was it who came to my aid? The woman couldn't have been much over 5'2" and less than sixty."

"Unfortunately that sort of behavior is not uncommon for both genders," Holmes admitted. "But take my fiancée."

I gave him a curious look.

"She was the daughter of my former violin instructor. We were engaged to be married, the invitations were out, I was being fitted for a tailcoat, and then she died of influenza. Typical female unreliability."

Oh, the ultimate crime to die before one's wedding.

"Well," I replied. "I can one up you there, my dear Holmes. You of course know that I was engaged before I came to Great Britain. I never told you much about my fiancé, did I? He was an officer in the navy. My dress was made… white satin with sequins and frills. We had a church picked out, and the jeweler was holding our rings. Then he noticed something funny about the payroll books and realized that his immediate superior was skimming some off the top. He confronted the man about it, and the next morning he woke up kissing the gutter with the back of his head missing."

As blasé as I had sounded recounting the story to Holmes, it was still painful to me, but solving Quint's murder was my first taste of the art of deduction, and ultimately, what had led me to Holmes.

We stared at each other for a minute, trying to get the other person to blink, but at the same instant we both burst out laughing. Staring in the face we couldn't see eye-to-eye, but we were certain enough in our own opinions that we were willing to indulge the other. That was probably the reason why I was still living at 221B Baker Street.

Because Jacoby hadn't had the courtesy to confess before his suicide, Scotland Yard felt that the case had never been fully solved, but having found the guilty party, Holmes and I were satisfied.


End file.
